Quite strange how I often find myself writing about time. It fascinates me, confuses me, and often opens pathways to different phenomena. More importantly, for me, time is the perfect marriage of abstractness and reality, a cross between science and literature. Time isn’t always constant- time is relative. Just like almost everything.
Time seems to speed up as you get older because of the percentages of your life that each year is. Imagine your first birthday. At the end of your first year of your life, that year was 100% of your life. Approaching your second birthday, that year was 50% or your life. It goes on like this so when you turn thirty, that year was 1/30th or your life so far.
Time seems to speed up because the years get smaller and more meaningless by comparison. And the relativity of time is such, that the different between a fifteen year old and a fourteen year old is greater than that of a fifty-six and fifty-five year old. By the time your life nears its close, the years seem less distinct, less significant.
That’s probably why I believe that when you turn sixteen, don’t forget to be fifteen. Fifteen and fourteen and thirteen and twelve. Don’t forget the first time you rode and bike and came home with scraped knees, or the time you drew your family on your bedroom wall. Because as the years go by, you are nothing but an amalgamation of your past, shaping your future as it comes. Like a Matryoshka doll, stacked in with lessons and learnings from the years that went by. And remember that the years will go by, but they are omnipresent in your being.